


possibility theory

by Mattition



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Jon at least lol), A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Breeding, Dacryphilia, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Forced Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattition/pseuds/Mattition
Summary: “Sure you are, angel, this skirt ought to be illegal, short as it is. Who let you out the house dressed like some pervert’s school-girl wet dream?"ORjon can get a little non-conned, as a treat :3
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 118





	possibility theory

**Author's Note:**

> WELL THIS TOOK A TURN  
> listen i was gonna write a lil one-shot abt Jon transing himself and happening to name himself jonah,, but, uh. I wrote this.   
> we're not gonna talk about it okay.. just.
> 
> CWs: this is dubious consent, edging into straight-up rape, (like half the porn i write) but it's not v aggressive, or anything. general Elias creepiness. I imagine Jon is like 16-17 in this, but feel free to read him as college-age (or younger lol), I never specify. Mentions of Jon & other underage individuals having sex/ doing sexual acts. This is also pre-trans Jon! he's not out and still presents fem, so beware. (i again project onto the jarchivist). there is also discussion of pregnancy, babies, etc. pretty surface level. some slut shaming, but like,, sexy. Otherwise, pls heed tags & enjoy~
> 
> Anatomy:  
> Jon: tits, nipples, chest. cunt, pussy. a lot of mentions of slick. (jfc ma'at)  
> Elias: cock, dick

Someone raps twice on the circulation counter, crisp and neat. Jon hums, waiting for Sara’s chipper voice to greet the customer, but there is a long pause instead. Jon looks up from his little nest of books. He’s hemmed in by a wall on one side and a cart on the other and he’s been curled over his keyboard entering books into the shelving database. Sara lets him do this when he’s stressed, and he’s been applying to uni, so he’s been tearing his hair out trying to figure out how to make himself seem desirable. No one _really_ wants a bookish orphan who won’t shut the fuck up to save his life, but he’s got good grades and his teachers have been glad to write him recommendations. He’s just. Anxious. Still, there’s a person waiting at the desk and Sara is nowhere to be seen. Jon wonders if she just forgot to tell him she was stepping away as he carefully wheels the shelving cart out of his way. He tries to brush the creases out of his shirt as he goes, but he’s a lost cause, and it’s a public library anyway, so he doesn’t need to impress anybody. 

He is immediately proven wrong when he catches eyes with the handsome man waiting at the counter. He is typing something on a blackberry and looks wildly out of place in a three-piece suit. A heavy looking wool coat is hooked carelessly in the crook of his elbow. He looks rather busy, actually, and Jon is hesitant to interrupt him. The man turns piercing green eyes on him, and Jon is frozen. His mouth is half open with a greeting on his tongue, but this man’s eyes are so sharp that adrenaline floods his veins. He turns into a deer on a back road, and he stutters to a stop. The man raises a manicured eyebrow and Jon squeaks. He plasters on his customer service smile and approaches the man. 

“Hello, sir, I’m sorry for the wait. How can I help you?” Jon’s not the best at customer service, it’s half the reason Sara leaves him to his excel sheets or banishes him to the stacks, he’s liable to bite someone’s head off if they’re older than 14 and they come up asking questions. He really does have a soft spot for kids, not that he thinks he’ll ever get the chance to have one. 

“I’m looking for a book.” Says the man. There is an expectant pause as Jon waits for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. Jon sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Do you know the title of it? The author?”

“It is not in your catalog. If you encounter it, it fills you with unimaginable dread and you have an uncontrollable urge to read it.” He leans closer, holding intense eye contact. Jon has a sudden flash of the anxiety and fear he had reading the spider book when he was a kid, the absolute loss of control, the inability to stop turning pages and save himself. He tears his eyes away and dips under the counter, where he presses the heels of his hands over his eyes. The man leans over the counter, puts his head in his hand. He looks pleased, satisfied. Jon locks a distressed sound behind his teeth. “Have you found such a book, then?”

“N-no,” Jon stutters out. He is trembling. The man chuckles amiably.

“Poor thing,” he coos. A shock of anger goes through Jon’s chest. Who does this man think he is? He bares his teeth at the man. Jon is sure, suddenly, that this man knows what happened to him with the spider book. “It must have been quite traumatizing for you. Tell me, have you seen a book here that feels the same? Some part of the library that feels foreboding?”

Jon has been avoiding the northwest corner of the stacks because being there has been giving him a creeping sense of doom that he has been trying desperately to ignore. The man places a hand on the top of Jon’s head. Jon tries to suppress his shudders as he stands back up and shakes the hand off.

“Show me to that part of the library, won’t you?” asks the man, in a way that implies ‘no’ is not answer. Still, Jon opens his mouth to deny his request; he can’t just leave the desk unmanned. The odds are stacked against him, however, because Sara comes striding around the corner, carrying a stack of heavy books and muttering to herself. She looks between Jon and the man and gives a strained smile.

“Mr. Bouchard! Hello! Have you been able to find everything you needed?” Jon tries not to wince. Mr. Bouchard is a big-shot London Intellectual who gives their little library a lot of funding and attention. Jon himself has been able to look at some very niche, rare material because of this man’s inexplicable interest in Bournemouth Public Library. 

“Yes, hello, I was just asking your coworker here to help me locating a book that I don’t believe should be in your catalog.”

“Oh, like a lost book?” Sara sets her stack down on the chair next to her desk.

“Yes. Lost.”

“Well, Jo here can show you the way, I’ll take over the desk.” Jon grimaces and the man nods amiably.

“Lovely, I so appreciate your help.”

Jon reluctantly comes around the desk and starts toward the offending corner of the library. The man paces close behind him.

“I don’t think I introduced myself; ever so sorry. My name is Elias Bouchard.”

“Right, great. Happy to meet you.”

“And your name is…?”

“On my name tag,” Jon drawls, crossing his arms petulantly. He’s forgotten his manners immediately after promising himself to be on his best behavior. Mr. Bouchard scoffs.

“That is not your name. I’m asking what _you_ are called.”

“Er.” Says Jon. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“What if I can guess it? Would you prefer that?” Jon turns to face him. Mr. Bouchard is much closer than he’d anticipated. His instinct is to shrink back, but he stands his ground.

“You can try,” he tips his chin up, haughty. If this man thinks he’s going to get his way by calling him all sorts of “exotic” names, he has another think coming. Mr. Bouchard smiles. It is not a nice smile, for all that it _is_ a nice smile. A shiver goes up his spine, but he’s hesitant to call it fear.

“I rather think,” says Mr. Bouchard, reaching out to take Jon’s chin between thumb and forefinger. Jon smacks his hand away. “Your name must start with a J, is that incorrect?”

Jon wants to lie, just to be petty, spiteful, but he finds he can’t quite bring himself to do it. He nods, rolling his eyes. He hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. 

“Hm. Something simple, classic. Nothing too far-reaching, nothing that would set you too far out from the crowd.” This time, when Mr. Bouchard touches him, it’s with his full hand, warm and soft where it grips his chin. He is gentle, but Jon can’t break his hold. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Mr. Bouchard turns Jon’s head this way and that, hums consideringly. Jon bites his lip. He locks his knees to keep them from turning to jelly. He’s not sure it works as well as he wants. “Did you take your name from a book?”

“That’s plebian,” Jon objects. Mr. Bouchard’s pleasant expression goes wry.

“A history book, then? Or the bible?”

“W-well,”

“You are a well-read little thing, aren’t you? What was it about it that affected you so?” Jon mutters something under his breath about the Nevi’im and finally breaks his hold to turn away. He’s surprised that Mr. Bouchard lets him go so easily. Jon flushes as Mr. Bouchard laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, really, it doesn’t jolt in the pit of Jon’s stomach like the jeering laughs of his classmates. If he had to choose some way to describe it, he’d say it was indulgent. “That’s precious. A biblical name for a pretty little angel like you, huh?”

“Not an angel,” Jon objects quietly.

“No need to get petulant, angel, I think that’s lovely. Hm. A prophet, hein? Shall I go down the line? I’m sure my dear mother would be shocked to hear how few I can name,”

“Whatever,” says Jon, finally. “I’ll tell you,”

“No, I’m having fun, little angel,”

“Stop calling me that,” he’s usually much more forceful than this. He grits his teeth and spins on his heel. If Mr. Bouchard really thought his lost book was so important, he’d not have accosted Jon here in the darkest corner of the library. He knows what this man wants, and he’s, frankly, just not going to think about it until he’s forced to. 

“Shall I call you Elijah, then? David? Muhammad?” He’s smirking like the devil, Jon can hear it in his voice. He grinds his teeth. People always want to think things about him, they always presume to know him or his thoughts, and he’s tired of it. He’s tired of them getting him _wrong_. Is he really such an impossible concept? Is he such an enigma? Is he not worthy of being known? He’s not going to cry for this man. He bites his lip. He starts looking around for that stupid book. He knows it must be over here, because there is the stone in his stomach, there is the weight. “Little angel,” murmurs Mr. Bouchard. He is no longer smirking, so Jon turns to look at him. He is standing in the middle of the aisle with a bit of a blank look on his face. Jon raises an eyebrow. “Did you name yourself Jonah?”

Jon splutters a bit, but nods. He guessed it, fair and square; he’s made himself the only person else who knows the name Jon prefers. At this thought, Jon flushes and turns away again. He has to get himself under control, he can’t keep flip-flopping his attention around the place. He reaches blindly for a book, chooses one at random. It is a smallish paperback with a glossy red cover. Jon squints down at it. It doesn’t have a call number sticker on it. It is titled simply, _Possibility Space_.

Mr. Bouchard leans over his shoulder, putting a hand on his hip. Jon flips the book open, paying the rest of the world little mind. He doesn’t glance at the bookplate, he just starts in on the first chapter, voracious for new information. He had assumed it would be about math, but it’s more than that. It _is_ about possibility, about the endless possibility of life, of _creating life_. He bites his lip as he reads. He’s always wanted that, even when he realized he was not a girl, he still wanted that, to be a progenitor, to be a parent. Before he worked at the library, when he was a tiny thing still trembling from the aftershocks of terror the spider book caused him, his grandmother would drop him in the children’s room and he would sit and listen to the pretty volunteer reader, a woman who’s name he can’t recall, but he knows people didn’t appreciate her much; she was the beautiful young wife of some local man about town, a man twice her age. He remembers talking to her one day, when the other children had gone away after her story was finished. He remembers asking, polite and timid, about her baby, about the swell of her stomach and if it hurt. She had smiled, beatific, and told him she thought there was no better feeling than bringing life into the world. She had let him touch her belly, and told him he would be lucky when it was his turn to be pregnant. He had taken it to heart, tucked it behind his sternum. He wanted that; he made plans for it, doodled in his notes baby names and wedding veils. All he’d known at that time was that you had to be married to have a baby. He wanted a husband as a secondary to his desire for a baby, and his desire for a baby was further secondary to his resounding desire to be pregnant. He wanted it then, and God, he wants that _now_. He casts about for Mr. Bouchard, sticks a finger between the pages to mark his spot. Mr. Bouchard is not far, examining the bookshelves, looking for all the world like just another patron. Jon is suddenly sure that this man would be willing to help him out. 

“Sir,” sighs Jon, “M-Mister Bouchard, have you read this book?” Mr. Bouchard shakes his head, but doesn’t turn his eyes onto even the front cover. Jon nods, disappointed. “Would you, I mean, I’ve only read the first chapter, but, it’s, I’m, I want it, it’s all I’ve ever wanted, I n-need,” Jon stumbles over his words, stumbles on weak legs, takes tentative steps towards him. Mr. Bouchard smiles that fond little smile, reaches out and tips Jon’s chin up so their eyes meet.

Jon shudders at his touch and his knees do turn to jelly this time. Luckily, Mr. Bouchard is there to catch him. He turns Jon bodily, lets his big hands drag up Jon’s front, grips his small waist. Jon keeps hold of the book in his hand, though he seems to have little control over his limbs, he’s so distracted by the pair of roving hands building heat between his thighs.

He’s never felt like this. He’s touched himself before, in the dark of his bed, under the covers and furtive, terrified of discovery, but he needn’t have worried so much. It felt good, once he touched enough to make it slick and hot there, but it was such effort, it was quite a lot of build up for such little pay off. He’s never understood, to this very moment, why his classmates are so voracious to touch and grope and fuck each other. He’s let a few boys fumble under his uniform skirt, when he’s smoking behind the gym at lunch, he’s sucked dick, he’s been fucked clumsily, pressed against the brick by bullies who take payment for his protection in skin, but it’s never been like this. Sex is a transaction, sex is a meeting of flesh, a mixing of fluids, a tiresome distraction. But it feels different, now.

He knows, now, as he struggles to suppress whimpering moans as Mr. Bouchard slips his hands up his shirt, under his bralette, squeezes his little tits, pinches his nipples. Jon is panting, head lolled back and mouth agape. Mr. Bouchard licks a line up his throat.

“You’ll so good for me, won’t you, angel?” He coos. Jon nods mindlessly. He wants to be good. Maybe if he’s good, Mr. Bouchard will fuck him, fill him up. He’s so empty, really, dripping and neglected. He squeezes his thighs together. He can’t _stand_ how empty he is. He sobs. Mr. Bouchard removes one hand from his shirt and drags it up so that his chest is bared to all. Jon squirms, frantic to be filled. He’s whimpering out little pleas, which Mr. Bouchard shushes, soothing him. 

“I’ll fill you up, sweet thing.” Mr. Bouchard pulls him off balance, grips his leg, just above the knee, and yanks it upwards. He settles Jon’s knee into the crook of his elbow so Jon is spread open, soaked cunt on display for anyone who might walk by, skirt rucked up around his hips. He is crying in earnest now, bottom lip bitten red as he tries desperately to keep quiet while still somehow enticing Mr. Bouchard to fuck him full. The man in question hums into his ear, grinds his hard cock into Jon’s back. He’s so much bigger, so much stronger, Jon has a sudden vision of himself hanging off of Mr. Bouchard’s dick; he’s so much smaller, his feet wouldn’t even touch the ground. The image sends a sharp jab of electric heat down his spine, straight to his core, and he moans, loud. Mr. Bouchard shushes him again, and sighs, put-upon. Jon bites his lip. He’s being so needy, he knows, but he can’t seem to help it, this has been his one desire, his one constant secret aspiration for as long as he can remember. He needs to get _bred_ , and he needs Mr. Bouchard to be the one who does it. Mr. Bouchard pulls his panties to the side and tips Jon back into his chest. Jon can feel him breathing, can feel his warmth up his back, and he trembles with want. Mr. Bouchard hooks two fingers into his cunt, using it like a convenient handhold. Jon pants, open mouthed. It’s a lot. He’s taken more before, but the fingers are so thick and so casually possessive that it sets him on something of a spiral. He humps down against the heel of Mr. Bouchard’s hand, animal and desperate. Mr. Bouchard hums again, pulls him further off kilter, arranges Jon to his liking, held close and debauched. 

“You’re trying so hard to live up to that name, aren’t you, Jonah?” Mr. Bouchard coos into his ear. Jon doesn’t quite get where he’s coming from, but now is not the time to discuss the bible, so he lets it slip away. “Little slut, spreading your legs for every man who takes a firm tone, flashing that dripping pussy at anyone you can.”

“‘m not,” Jon tries to rebut, though Mr. Bouchard seems pleased by Jon’s wantonness. He pinches Jon’s breast cruelly and he has to bury his face into his shoulder to muffle the moan. He’s never considered the intersection of pain and pleasure, and he rather thought he’d hate it, but it only serves to make him wetter. 

“Sure you are, angel, this skirt ought to be illegal, short as it is. Who let you out the house dressed like some pervert’s school-girl wet dream?” The skirt _is_ a little short on him, but he usually wears tights under and it’s fine, only, today, he had had to wear a pair of long socks because his tights had a terrible run and he was too rushed to try and dig out another pair. He’s regretted the mishap all this shift because he’d spent the first half on and off his knees reorganizing some of the lower shelves because they’d gotten in a new collection of YA novels. There’s dirty little scuff marks on the knees of his white socks, so no wonder Mr. Bouchard thinks he’s a slut. He probably marked Jon as a wanton, desperate whore the second he walked out of the back office, and Jon can’t bring himself to deny the label, as he is here, begging for this man’s come, begging to be knocked up for some unimaginable reason. All he can think is that the book had affected him somehow. It was like it was written for him explicitly, a perfect match to his inner monologue, his own need to be loved and clandestine desire to be bred full to the bursting. The mere mention of it had sent him into a frenzy, and his head is foggy with the force of his gagging for cock. Mr. Bouchard continues murmuring affectionate degradation into his ear as he adds another finger, spreading them wide and thrusting hard, making him squeak with the force. 

“Ple-ase, sir,” Jon moans, “Please fuck me, please fill me, I n-need it so bad, sir, can you please breed me?” He’s not sure when he dropped the book, but he clutches at Mr. Bouchard’s arms, weak limbed and shivering with want. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you filled up proper, angel, but we can’t do that here.” Jon feels a pang of anxiety and disappointment. If Mr. Bouchard won’t fuck him full right this moment, He’ll lose his entire mind, actually. He wants it _now_. He’s been waiting for it for far too long at this point. Mr. Bouchard tsks. “You won’t get filled at all if you’re going to take an attitude.” Jon whimpers anxiously, clenches around his fingers. He’s not sure from where Mr. Bouchard pulls it, but the next thing he knows, he’s got half a dildo shoved in his pussy and he’s barely able to resist screaming with the pleasure of finally being full, even if it is cool, unfeeling plastic. It’s not a big toy, and Mr. Bouchard tucks it up into him with little issue. He settles Jon’s panties back properly, though they are a bit cold, Jon just shudders and doesn’t complain. Jon’s limp in his arms, quivering faintly, but he opens his mouth easily for Mr. Bouchard’s wet fingers. He licks his own slick from Mr. Bouchard’s hand, whimpering low in his chest and twitching his hips uselessly into the air. There’s nothing for him to grind against anymore, and for all that the fullness is satisfying, the toy is still and hard within him, and offers little in the way of friction. 

“How’s that, little angel?” Mr. Bouchard asks, obviously pleased with Jon’s distress. He guides Jon’s leg back to the floor, and Jon babbles out a mixture of thank yous and pleas, even as his knees buckle. Mr. Bouchard catches him again, and turns him so that they’re facing each other. He tips Jon’s head back and kisses him. He kisses like he owns Jon, and, as far as Jon is concerned, he _does_. Jon’s been kissed a grand total of two times before this; both were terrible, and are all but vaporized from his mind by the all-consuming nature of this one. When he finally pulls away, Mr. Bouchard is smiling wide, that nice-not-nice smile from earlier. 

“Mr. Bouchard,” breathes Jon. Mr. Bouchard traces his tear tracks, rubs them further into his wet cheeks. 

“I think you may call me Elias,” says Mr. Bouchard. He leans forward and licks Jon’s cheek. Jon whimpers. Into his ear, Mr. Bouchard murmurs, “I’ll see you again, little angel, little Jonah, I’ll get you bred up right.” Jon paws weakly at his chest, begging, though he can’t describe for what.

“…Did you find your book?”

“ _You_ did, sweet thing. Why don’t you keep on reading it, I’m sure you’ll find something to take away from it.”

“Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Jon babbles. Mr. Bouchard’s smile widens and he carefully extracts himself from Jon’s embrace. He brushes imaginary lint from his pristine suit and gives Jon a critical once-over. Jon has to reach out to the nearby shelf to steady himself, his knees are so shaky. His shirt is still pushed up to his armpits, and his nipples feel sensitive and bruised. His skirt is rumpled and one of his socks has fallen, but he’s retaining some modicum of modesty just by virtue of the fluttery nature of the skirt making it fall to cover him back up. 

“Put yourself together, angel.” Mr. Bouchard directs. Jon nods and numbly tries to disentangle his bralette and shirt mess. He eventually gets fed up and pulls them both off. Mr. Bouchard holds out a hand the second he does, and Jon, confused but obedient, hands him the pile of fabric. Elias calmly separates them, and hands Jon back his shirt. Jon waits a moment, but he’s not returned the bra.

“Sir? I kind of need that?” Jon says timidly. Mr. Bouchard shakes his head and tucks the offending garment into the inner pocket of his blazer.

“You don’t really want it, baby slut, you want to parade around with your soaked little panties and plugged up pussy, you want everyone to be able to see those pretty, puffy little nipples and know what a whore you are. Go ahead and dress yourself, otherwise you’ll be without the shirt either.” His tone brokers no argument, and Jon admits to himself as he hurriedly drags his top on and sets about tucking it in, that he’s somewhat right about that. Jon _does_ want attention, he does want people to look and gawk because he’s so desirable, even if he doesn’t really want to fuck anyone but, apparently, Mr. Bouchard. When he’s presentable, Mr. Bouchard nods at him, still with that smile gracing his handsome face, and turns to leave.

Jon is left to pick up the thin red book and stumble his way back to his desk. He’s already daydreaming about when they’ll meet next.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> I'm on nsfw twitter [ @maatition ](https://twitter.com/maatition) so follow me there if ur 18+ :)


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